Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
I couldn’t help but sing the wonderful Butterworth setting as we walked along, for the first time really letting the words take full effect; fifty Springs are indeed little room to look at things in bloom.